Favourite Albums of 2012

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I’m not the only novelist (and certainly not the only crime writer) who’s passionate about music. I’m not even the only writer who’s also a music journalist. One of the great perks of music journalism, at least to my mind, is the number of CDs and downloads I receive. The chance to review some of them for real money and even do the occasional feature on an artist, is the icing on the cake.

My tastes run as far as possible from the mainstream. Most rock bores me now (age means I seem to have heard something similar before) and pop should rightly be aimed at the young, and possible those not especially interested in music. I value something different, something that moves my heart, and hopefully either my head or feet, too. Something different, something that captures my ears and makes me think.

In that regard, 2012 has been a decent year. I’m going to avoid albums that have been up for awards or have already won them. People like Sam Lee and Bellowhead, for instance, have enjoyed the oxygen of publicity. Their albums are great, but no one needs me pointing that out when others already have. So, here are four that might have gone under the radar in 2012 but which I found to be among my best of the year. Click the link for videos.

Lo’Jo – Cinema el Mundo

I love Lo’Jo and I make no bones about it. I have since I first heard them in 1998 and seeing them only cemented my passion. How much do I love them? Enough to be their US record label for a while when I lived there and to fly from Seattle to London to see them perform. Their new album, celebrating 30 years of anarchy and communal living in Angers, France, sees them leaping out of their skins again with guests like Robert Wyatt on hand to help out (and that mean is a musical god in my book). Leader Denis Péan still has the gravelly vocals, somewhere between Tom Waits and Serge Gainsbourg, and the magical, unlikely, surreal touch with his poetry. The El Mourid sisters still have those dry desert sororal harmonies and the music ranges from the breathless to the dashing, but with so much more detail than before. Listening it like losing yourself in a painting where each brushstroke contributes something and takes you deeper into its rather magical web. Their concerts can be events, with circus performers, bizarre cabaret, whatever strikes their fancy, and their music draws from French chanson, the cha’abi of North Africa and from so many corners of the globe, but they absorb the influences and make it all sound like Lo’Jo.

Tim Eriksen – Josh Billings Voyage

Tim Eriksen was the mainstay of the wonderful Cordelia’s Dad, a band who could play traditional American folk with all the intensity of hardcore punk and then turn electric for a feast of noise. As a solo artist he’s wandered several paths (his last album was unaccompanied songs, recorded in a single take in a tower in Poland, as an example), and he’s a superb singer (with a deep love of the Sacred Harp tradition), as well as gifted banjo player and fiddler. This album, however, is much fuller, set in a mythical New England port town, and that guitar on it isn’t – it’s bajo sexto, a Mexican instrument. What Eriksen captures in the rather strange voyage is the multiculturalism on 19th century New England, the way tunes and songs and above all ideas travel. His creation might seem to creak with the weight of age but it really stands outside time, whether on Hindoo Air, a song that’s turned into a children’s rhyme or his version of Auld Lang Syne which morphs into a sweaty electric workout. There’s religion, of course, given the period, but even more there’s thought and compassion. It’s the product of one person’s powerful vision and a sign that he really does continue to grow as an artist. And bowed banjo is a true wonder to hear.

Katy Carr – Paszport

This came late in the year but still made a great impact. Carr – a new name on me – has been releasing albums since 2001, but in 2009 came up with a song, Kommander’s Car, based on the story of a young man who escaped Auschwitz by dressing in Nazi uniform and driving out in the commander’s car. She met the man and it triggered something special, putting her in touch with her Polish side (she’s English but her mother comes from Poland) and their resistance and fighting spirit, first against the Nazis, then Stalin’s Russia. It a disc of small heroisms, from the spy Mala to Wojtek the fighting bear. Musically it’s a beautifully accomplished record, fine songs and occasional touches of Poland in the arrangements. There’s a little bit of Kate Bush about her writing and singing at times, but that’s certainly no bad thing; she’s no copyist and this is very much a labour of love, where politics, the heart and art all manage to come beautifully together. On the basis of this at least (and I’m still not familiar with her earlier albums) she deserves to be more widely known.

Mama Rosin – Bye Bye Bayou

There aren’t too many Swiss Cajun punk bands; this may or may not be a good thing. But there is Mama Rosin, who have filled the role perfectly with their previous releases. This time out, though, they’ve filled out the sound a bit. Yes, there’s still Zydeco in there but with the help of producer Jon Spencer (of Blues Explosion fame) there’s some swamp pop, a bit of blues, and more unselfconscious retro touches than you can shake a stick at – without every sounding like a re-creation of another era. It’s a disc that also manages to really rock, even more than they have in their past, and Spencer adds depth to the production that’s been missing in the past – makes it more professional without being slick. The band has matured without having grown up. They’re still having fun, there’s still a sense of chaos. But years of touring hard have helped them develop real tightness. What this disc really does is take them up to that next level to where they can find a wider audience, and proves there’s much more on the menu than crayfish.

My Father

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Another month, more or less, and it’ll be 12 years since my father died. I was living overseas then, and I’d seen him a couple of months earlier, before he had his final stroke and eventually succumbed to renal failure. When my mother called with the news I wasn’t surprised: earlier that day, when I came into my office, for the merest fraction of a second I saw him sitting in my chair, looking the way I’d remembered him, and I knew he was saying his farewell to me.

We can never really know or understand our parents, but the gulf between my generation and his was great than most. He was almost 40 when I was born in 1954. He’d been through the Depression and served in World War II. Some of the things he’d seen are still beyond my ken.

He was an intelligent, well-read man for all that he grew up in working-class Hunslet in Leeds and left Cockburn High School at 14, the way so many did. His own father, whom I only remember from regular visits there on a Saturday, was an irascible, somewhat feckless man, one who won a cotton mill in Dublin in a card game and moved his English family over to live there. In 1920. A man who’d go for weeks without giving his sons pocket money then lavish half a crown on each of them when he was flush. A man who seemingly made and lost money regularly but who could be surprisingly generous. When my mother was pregnant with me he had a new car and insisted my father swap it for his own wreck lest I be born on the seat during a trip.

My father was, by all accounts, a remarkably talented pianist. He had his own jazz group in Leeds in the 1930s. As a boy he relished the summers because they meant staying with a relative who ran the Victoria in Sheepscar – sadly no longer extant – with its huge garden and a piano where he could play as much as he wanted. During the war he even backed up Nat King Cole – no dud on the ivories himself – a couple of times. And once the hostilities were over he was offered a job with one of the BBC orchestras. He turned them down because he didn’t believe he was good enough.

As soon as he was able to, he grew a moustache to make himself look older and kept it all his life (adding a beard much later), even though he went bald at 26. I remember seeing a photo of him with hair and literally doing a double take; except for the ‘tache it was like seeing myself. Some men turn into their fathers, I didn’t even have to.

He was a cinema manager, a salesman with his own business that eventually went bust over a £60 tax bill and also a writer. In the late ‘60s/early ‘70s, two of his plays made it onto TV. He could have made a career from it. But he didn’t; once more, he didn’t seem to think he was good enough. But he encouraged my writing, my music, and was so proud when he held my first non-fiction book (sadly, he never lived to see the publication of my novels).

He was a dapper man, always well turned out, in a suit when younger, of cavalry twills and a cravat, taking pride in his appearance as that generation did. He never approved when I grew my hair or dressed in an old greatcoat, jeans and tee shirt. But he was willing to listen to the music I enjoyed and not dismiss it; if it was good musically, he liked it.

When I was seven he took me to the music shop that was then in Thornton’s Arcade in Leeds. The plan was to buy me a mouth organ. I did come out with that. But we also seemed to have bought a baby grand piano that sat in the front room for the next few years. But then, a year or two earlier he’d come home the owner of an expensive Wolseley car without telling my mother, and the year after I was born spent £55 on a watch – a ridiculous figure in those days.

I recall him once telling me he’d worked undercover, as a volunteer, with the Vice Squad, going into illegal drinking establishments, the shebeens as they were, and also buying marijuana back in the 1950s. It was a tale I took with a dose of salt, but it stuck with me. After he’d died I asked my mother about it. ‘No, it’s true,’ she said. ‘He really did. After you were born I made him stop, it was just too dangerous.’

But what I remember most, what’s probably had the deepest effect on me, happened when I was 14. He’d been a good salesman, one of the top at his company, but he was let go as he was considered too old at 54. Until he could sell his first play he took a job he hated (he never complained, but his silences and expression spoke volumes) to keep bread on the table. My admiration for him still knows no bounds for that. He did what he had to do.

Yes, he could be cantankerous, never willing to admit he was wrong even when facts contradicted him, and yes, we butted heads loudly and often when I was a teenager, but he helped shape me. And, I think, he still does. Except the cantankerous part, of course.

On Parents

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My parents lived long enough to see a number of my non-fiction books published, and they were inordinately proud of me, more so than I was of myself. To my father, who’d had a couple of plays on TV in the 1960s, it was a fulfilment of his dream for himself. To my mother…well, it gave her huge satisfaction to see me happy, making money from something I’d long wanted to do. But those books, unauthorised quickie bios of movie and music people (written under my own name and a pseudonym which, no, I won’t reveal) were satisfying only because they paid well and were done in a month. As an exercise in learning how to write they were invaluable, though, getting it down right the first time as the deadline didn’t allow for extensive revisions.

They weren’t great books but hopefully they did the job. They, along with my music journalism, paid the bills when I had a young son. They allowed me to work from home and handle much of the childcare, to be around and develop a close bond with my boy, perhaps the most valuable thing of all.

My parents were both dead by the time my first novel came out, and with each one that’s appeared I’ve wondered what they’d think of them. When there’s been good news, an accolade, I’ve wanted to share it with them. That came home to me once more last weekend, when the audiobook of my first novel was named one of the audiobooks of the year by The Independent. There was I, sandwiched between Ian Fleming (a great favourite of my dad’s) and J.K. Rowling, along with Kashuo Ishiguro, very august company. My partner was overjoyed for me, I was pretty speechless over the whole thing, but I couldn’t share it with the people who’d first encouraged my writing.

My father used to critique the teenage poems I wrote, and he’d treat my words honestly, as if they were adult. He was also an excellent pianist – in the 30s he had a jazz band – who was invited to join a BBC Orchestra and refused because he didn’t believe he was good enough. He lent me the money for my first bass guitar and amp, but only on the condition that I learnt to read music for it. On Sundays he’d do into the front room and work on his novel, never published and now long gone, set in Leeds, a tale based around one of his (and my) ancestors.

And now I have my own tales based in a Leeds long gone and largely forgotten. I have my own son, who’s read one of them, after much cajoling. He’s not a reader, but he enjoyed it, and cited it in a paper he had to write about poverty in literature, alongside Oliver Twist. It thrilled me more than I could say for him to do that. Next year he’ll be going on to university in American to study maths, a subject far beyond my comprehension, and I’m so proud of his college acceptances.

I miss my parents; I even miss the way my father had to be right even when he so obviously wasn’t. I miss the unwavering, gentle support of my mother. Each time, when I finish writing a book, I ask myself whether it honours them. All I can hope, with each one, is that it does.

It’s Only Schlock’n’Roll

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So in a blast of publicity the Rolling Stones have turned 50 and celebrated it with a London concert where tickets ranged from £96 to £1000. Call it nostalgia, call it entertainment if you like. But don’t call it rock’n’roll.

There can still be magic in those three little words. They conjure up excitement, they conjure up youth and above all they conjure up rebellion. As soon as white American teenagers discovered this black music, mostly courtesy of Elvis, it was dangerous. It made them think unclean thoughts and disobey their parents, to slip outside the straitjacket norms of society. It was ungodly an un-American. It was brilliant.

The British bands who fed the music back to America and to the rest of the world were inspired by black music. It touched something in them and acted as a catalyst and for a few heady years they could go exactly where their imaginations took them. The Beatles, the Who, the Kinks, the Pretty Things and, yes, the Stones, made the ‘60s a decade of excitement and musical discovery, and by its end, a long way from the rock that had inspired it. By 1970 it had mostly gone from the gut to the brain, dissected and intellectualised (ironically, the one band that had returned to rock was the Stones). We should perhaps be glad that the Beatles called it quits with such a majestic canon of work. If they hadn’t, their legend would inevitably have become tarnished. By 1972 all those bands had run out of anything relevant to say.

Fast forward to 1976 and punk. Once again it was those kids doing it for themselves, being shocking and contemptuous of society’s mores. And why not? Society had nothing for them, the new boss was pretty much the same as the old boss, and kicking against the pricks is the way life should be for the young. The original musical influences of rock might not have been there, but the spirit certainly was, just as it was in ’88, when the second summer of love brought in dance beats, E and raves, things beyond the ken and acceptance of the establishment. Hip-hop, grime, they all tell the story of the fight – at least until they’re co-opted. In many ways punk died as soon as the clothes appeared in High Street shop windows. At that point it was, quite literally, window dressing.

Our pop icons – and how many have made the grim slide from rock to pop status – have become the establishment, with titles, estates, riches and people more than eager to do their bidding. And in that state, isolated and feted, they lost all relevance. It’s a tale told over and over again. Few avoid it. My generation, the baby boomers (I’m at the tail end) want to keep connected, to stay hip. We listen to new music, we want something to excite us. And while that may be the way we’ve been conditioned it’s probably wrong. What we should be looking for is some new music that climbs up from the streets, out of the underground, that we can’t make sense of that we hate and that our kids absolutely love and want to play. Because only in that will they have their rebellion and their voice, the chance to give us the bird as we gave it to our parents. They deserve that. They need music that speaks to and for them, something not spoon fed on watered-down reality TV shows. Something that makes them want to trash things. Things like us and what we believe in.

The Stones might be a pleasant night out for the well-heeled with large disposable incomes. But it ain’t rock’n’roll. You can say something relevant and interesting as you grow older (Chumbawamba did it for 30 years, although they then stopped and the mighty Mekons keep going) but you can’t be a great rock’n’roll band. For that you have to be hungry, you need something to prove, something to blast and burn down. The best you can be is a well-oiled novelty and nostalgia act, a brand. It’s showbusiness, with the emphasis on the business. Just don’t call it rock’n’roll.

The Hurt

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1

He kicked the lad’s head, seeing it snap back hard. He heard the bone go in the nose and saw a dark arc of blood spurt before the skull crunched as it bounced off the wall. Then the lad landed, the breath pushing out of him. Something pooled under his scalp, forming a thin stream that rang along the pavement.

He prodded at the leg with his foot. Nothing. No reaction.

            For a moment he didn’t know what to do. He stared at the lad and the pool grew a little bigger. He started to run.

 

2

 

He fucking hated working Saturdays. Friday night was when Chelsea’s mam always took Kieran so they could go out. He had his pay then and she wanted to go out after being stuck in the flat all week with the baby; they could have some fun, a few drinks and sleep late in the morning. Last night they’d stayed at home, putting the boy to bed early. He’d bought a takeaway and they’d had some cans; better than no sleep and a hangover when he had to be up early. Chelz had moaned, the way she always did, and they’d ended up arguing again.

            He pulled himself out of bed and into his clothes, feeling shit. Chelsea grunted, her breath sour in his face. She’d said they should go out Saturday instead. She knew better than that. Saturday nights were for the lads. Back at the beginning, when he’d started seeing her, he’d told her that, and if she didn’t like it she could fuck right off.

            His mobile buzzed – Colin, checking he was ready, the way he did every morning. Just because he’d been late a few times. Outside, it was colder than he thought, the wind gusting hard and lifting the dead leaves from the ground. He heard a bright tinkle and watched an empty Red Bull can blow down the street. The start of November. There’d only be another week of work, a fortnight at most, giving lawns the last cut of the year and a final trim for the bushes. That was why he’d needed to work today, more money before he was laid off and back on benefits until March. Off in the distance he could hear the traffic on the ring road but round here it was quiet, just a dog barking somewhere. He lit a cigarette and tossed the empty pack on the pavement.

            The old van pulled up and he climbed in, equipment rattling in the back as Colin took off again. The boss was a big man, with broad shoulders and tattooed arms, always in the same old fucking tee shirt with the holes in it and combat pants, both of them stained green from all the grass. He’d wash them on the weekend and by the next Friday they’d be filthy again. And the fucker didn’t use deodorant. It was a nightmare; end of the day he’d be stinking as they drove home. About the only thing he did was keep his hair cropped close and that was just because he’d been a skin once when he was young.

            “We got four jobs and I got to be finished by noon,” he said, “so you’d better pull your weight for once. You got that?”

            “Yeah.” He smiled. Cheeky cunt. He was the one who used the mower and trimmed the bushes. All Colin managed was the strimming and flirting with the housewives, blagging cups of coffee through the day. Couldn’t blame him for trying, though, some of them were well fit. That one in West Bridgford had given him the eye a couple of times.

            “I mean it. I’m picking my lad up from the ex’s to take him to the Forest match. We’re not done in time you’ll be taking the bus home. I’m fucking serious, right?”

            “OK.” He litook a cigarette from the packet on the dashboard as Colin drove out along Mansfield Road and took the turning into Mapperly.

 

He was home by half-twelve, surprised by the silence when he unlocked the door. Usually Kieran would be banging away at something and Chelsea would have her music playing to drown him out. Maybe she’d taken him to the park or off to the shops. He took a can of Stella from the fridge, loving the way the first gulp took the edge off his thirst. Then he saw the note on the table – Daz, we gone to mum’s. Staying over.

            He tossed it in the bin along with the empty can. At least he could get a nap in peace without the kid bawling. He loved the lad but it did his head in sometimes, the way he could go on and fucking on. And all Chelz did was ignore it or just say ‘That’s enough, now,’ when Kieran needed a good slap to shut him up.

By eight he was showered and smelling right, wearing the shirt he’d bought the week before, the G-Star jeans and the Bench hoodie, a ready meal curry and three more cans of Stella in his belly.

The taxi was booked for half past. He was meeting the lads at the new bar across the square from the Council House. They’d start with a few drinks there and go on somewhere else. By the time he got home he’d remember fuck all about it and tomorrow  his head would be banging but that was what a good night was all about. His phone beeped, a text from Chelsea – miss u bbe.

The bar was Saturday night busy, loud talk, people dressed up, the music banging, everyone drinking and looking around hopefully.

“Pint of Stella, mate,” he said, spotting the others at a table in the corner. “All right?” he shouted as he walked up, slapping Matt so hard on the back he spilt his lager. Terry and Rhys were already roaring, empty shot glasses on the table. He grinned. Yeah, it was going to be good.

“You all right, Dazzer?” Rhys asked. He was still on Jobseekers’, living with his mum up in Sneinton and doing some labouring cash in hand a couple of days a week. They’d been mates all through school, suspended together a few times before Rhys ended up excluded for setting fire to the toilets.

Matt was wiping beer off his shirt.

“Cunt,” he said, but he was laughing. He’d been a year ahead of them all, the leader, the mad fucker who got stuck into every fight. But he was smart, too, went on to college and came out an electrician earning good money. He’d been married for three years, the names of his kids tattooed on his neck. Not that being wed stopped him on a Saturday night if he was in the mood and the girl was willing.

Terry was the one he didn’t know well, some mate of Matt’s who’d come out with them someone when City were away. He seemed to like a laugh, but he was quiet, he didn’t have the history with them. He wasn’t sure he trusted the lad.

Matt stood and raised his glass. The others followed him. It was the way they started every night out.

“To Alan, the stupid twat. Just a few months to go.”

They drank in silence for a moment, then Matt finished, the way he always did, “Silly cunt, getting caught.”

Alan had been part of the mob lobbing stones at Canning Circus police station during the riots the year before, getting his face caught on CCTV. The cops had come for him at six a.m., pulling him from his bed in his boxers, never mind that his mam was yelling he was innocent, and he’d gone down for two years. Out soon if he kept his nose clean.

He’d been texting the night it happened, telling them to get their arses down there. Daz had fancied a bit of thieving, maybe come home with a wide screen, some other stuff, good trainers. But Chelz told him straight that she’d walk out with Kieran if he did it and her face said she wasn’t pissing about.

 

By eleven they’d been on to a couple of different places and end up in a bar by the canal, gathered around an outdoor heater on the patio. Matt had tried it on with a hen party and they’d told him to fuck off, snotty cows. But if they were still here in a couple of hours…he drained the glass and felt the phone buzz in his pocket. Chelsea. She always did it on a Saturday night, couldn’t give him any peace.

            Amber cm rnd n told me bout u n her 2 wks ago.

            Fuck. His fingers moved fast.

            Wot I do?

            U no.

            She lying cow.

            No she not.

            Bbe I luv u u no tht.

            fuck u.

            He was sweating now, all the good buzz drained away. Shit. He didn’t think she’d ever find out about Amber. Why did the silly cunt have to start feeling guilty? She’d liked it well enough when he was fucking her.

            I do honest.

            will get things tmrw. Staying at mams w Kieran.

            Someone put a glass in front of him and he drank. Fuck. He looked up as he heard his name.

            “What?”

            “I was saying you never got in a fight at school,” Rhys said.

            “Yeah, I did,” he objected. “You know I fucking did.” He felt the anger coursing in him. He’d have to talk her round.

            “Who?”

            “Davy Arms.”

            “Davy Arms?” Rhys asked, his voice rising in disbelief. “You lying bastard. You’d run a mile rather than fight.” He looked at the others. “He makes butter look hard, does Daz.”

            They all started laughing. Laughing at him.

            “You think I wouldn’t hit someone? You reckon that, do you?”

            “I think you’d shit yourself, mate,” Matt told him. “Never seen you near when there’s a ruck on.”

            “Fuck you,” he shouted, the rage boiling, and a few heads turned before looking away quickly. He knew his face was red, but he didn’t care. “I tell you what, right? We’ll go out on the street right now and I’ll take on the first bloke we see.” He stood up, pushing the chair back so hard it fell over. “Yeah?”

            Matt glanced at the others.

            “Go on, then,” Terry said with a grin. “I want to see this.” He drained his pint. “Come on.”

            He went out ahead of them, pulling up his hoodie as they left. The phone buzzed in his pocket again but he ignored it. They started to walk away from town, the lights of the castle up blazing away on the hill. His fists were bunched, his mouth set hard. Fuck them. Fuck them all. He felt the fury churning inside. Yeah, so, he’d never been in a fight? Didn’t mean he couldn’t do it. Didn’t mean he didn’t have any bottle. Fuck Chelsea, too, whining cow. He’d only gone with Amber ‘cos she’d had a strop on and he’d gone out pissed off. It wasn’t anything.

            He saw the lad coming, on his own, hands in his pockets, head down. Long hair, looking like a fucking student in his skinny jeans and Converse. He waited until he was ten feet away and said, “You.”

            When the lad glanced up, he continued, “Yeah, you. Got a light, mate?”

            “I don’t smoke.” The lad started to turn away, looking for an escape, ready to cross the road, to take off and run. He could sense the fear and moved closer.

            “Cunt.”

He pushed the kid hard, watching him bounce off the wall then went in and punched him, once, twice in the gut, the way he’d seen the boxers do it on telly. He could feel the fire inside. The shouts of the others seemed to come from miles away, like a quiet roar.

            He saw the lad fall down and start puking, the vomit all over the pavement – he danced back so it wouldn’t go on his shoes. Very carefully, he picked a spot, drew back his leg like he was going for goal. He kicked the lad’s head, seeing it snap back hard. He heard the bone go in the nose and saw a dark arc of blood spurt before the skull cnuched as it bounced off the wall. Then the lad landed, the breath pushing out of him. Something pooled under his scalp, forming a thin stream that rang along the pavement.

He prodded at the leg with his foot. Nothing. No reaction

            For a moment he didn’t know what to do. He stared at the lad and the pool grew a little bigger. He started to run.

 

He ran over the bridge and along the canal, dodging in and out of the pools of light. The echo of his footsteps slapped back in his ears. He didn’t know where the others had gone, he just needed to get away from there. He took the pathclose to the Magistrates’ Court and came out across from the railway station, panting, bent over, hands on his knees, his heart pounding as if he’d just done a Mo Farah. Sweat was running down his back, and there was a deep roar inside that wanted to explode. Traffic was moving, the sound of engines, a line of taxis, like he’d suddenly come out from nowhere and discovered life. He forced himself to stop, holding on to each side of his head and tried to calm himself down then dragging his hands away in case anyone noticed. He didn’t want to be remembered.

            The lad couldn’t be dead. He hadn’t even given him much of a seeing-to. Someone would come along and find him then he’d be off to A&E and he’d be out in a day or two. That had to be right. Fucking had to be. 

In Praise of John Lawton

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John Lawton. It’s a name most people don’t know, but he’s one of the best, and certainly one of the most underrated, mystery/thriller writers. His series featuring Frederick Troy of the Yard, which stands at seven books, is his great achievement (there’s also another standalone book, set in the US in 1968). It covers ground from the 1930s to 1963, making it not only monumental but also quite audacious in its scope, especially as the books weave in plenty of real-life characters, including Kruschev drinking in a London pub, into the narrative, making for a blend of fact and fiction so expertly concocted that it can be hard to see where the first ends and the second begins.

Over the course of the books, Troy rises from being a policeman in the East end of London to Commander of the Murder Squad at Scotland Yard, a large career arc. He’s also injured countless times and manages to kill more people than any other policeman in England – although it’s not exactly a gunman score. He’s the younger son of a publishing magnate who escaped Russia early in the 20th century carrying a dubiously obtained fortune. So he’s a child of privilege, with an older brother who becomes a Labour MP (and eventual member of the Shadow Cabinet), so he’s also connected politically and socially. But that Russian heritage is an important part of him. It leaves him an outsider to the society of which he’s part, an observer who has no compunction about using his contacts or position but has little regard for the established order of class. He’s a saboteur of sorts, demolishing the structure from within.

The books are also – and this might be why he’s not the huge name he should be – acute observations on the state of England. Lawton is an excellent historian, superb at creating the feel of a time and place (the place being London, although his depiction of Vienna in the late 1930s is also wonderful). He transports the reader there, as any good writer should, but Troy has no time for those who talk of ‘a good war’ and whose only lives exist in the shadow of World War II. The final book in the series, at least chronologically, Little White Death, is set in 1963, just as England is starting to undergo a huge spasm of change in music, fashion and society. And he’s happy to tear it apart, to demolish to old order. At times it’s gleefully cynical, especially as, for much of the book, Troy is very much on the sidelines.

It’s not only Troy himself who’s so well drawn, but also the smaller characters who recur from book to book – his twin sisters, Masha and Sasha, his brother Rob, assistant Jack Wildeve and more. They’re flesh and blood, as are his lovers. Troy isn’t perfect – there’s that very Russian strain of pessimism in him and much self-reflection – but as a character he might be one of the most rounded in fiction. If you haven’t read any in the series, do. You won’t regret the time. I go through them all every couple of years and come away each time amazed at the achievement.

Losing The Plot

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Everyone has their ways, I suppose. There are those who like to plot out every last their books and those who don’t. I fall very firmly in the latter camp. To me, books are about the characters. They drive everything and they can be awkward buggers at times; they won’t do what you expect.

Actually, that’s when the fun really begins, because they’ve taken on lives of their own. My father, a good writer himself, gave me one piece of advice that’s stayed in my head – if you create a living, breathing character, people will follow him anywhere. That’s what I try to do in my books. These people are alive, they’re not shoehorned in to fit circumstances. They live their lives and all I do is write down what happens to them.

Of course a book needs a plot. It needs conflict and drama. But above all it needs characters that are fully three-dimensional, who impose themselves on events, who have their fears and foibles, their certainties and hubris – in other words, who are human. What do you recall when you’ve read a book. In the vast majority of cases it won’t be how meticulously constructed the lot was (if it’s really that good you won’t even notice it), but the people.

When I begin a book I know the starting point and where it finishes. Everything in between is a mystery until it happens. Quite often I’ll sit down in the morning with no idea what’s going to come out. I’ll let the movie ply in my head and type what’s going on. Sometimes it runs very slow, sometimes I have to dash to keep up. Sometimes it’ll take me by surprise and lead me somewhere unexpected. But that’s the joy and frustration of writing a novel; at times it’s strangely reminiscent of herding cats.

I won’t say this works for all writers. There’s no one-size-fits-all solution. But putting plot ahead of characters seems like placing the horse in front of the cart to me. If you don’t have characters to breathe into your ideas and make them live, all you have is a storyboard.

Torn From Today’s Headlines

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A story ripped from today’s headlines. That’s the tag line they use sometimes for a novel that’s especially topical.

But what happens when you unknowingly write a novel that, it turns out, could have been ripped from the current headlines? You’re faced with a dilemma, that’s what.

Next February the fifth Richard Nottingham novel, entitled At the Dying of the Year, will be published. It’s set in late 1733 but there are strong parallels to events that have happened very recently in 2012 – events that occurred after I’d completed the book, I hasten to add. I’m not going to offer any details or even say what events – you’ll have to wait and see, but I will give one hint, that, in the wake of a greater outrage, an allegation was made about the late politician Peter Morrison (I refuse to call anyone Sir or Lord). Enough said. If you want to know more then Google is your friend and follow the trail.

Writing a novel is one thing. It’s a work of the imagination, and the events aren’t even the emotional centre of the novel; they’re the trigger for everything else. But realising that reality goes further than fiction is disturbing. And with the dawning of that fact comes an epiphany: I’d rather keep quiet about the connection than exploit it. I know, I’m writing this blog which is almost a signpost, but no one will remember it come February. Let the fiction stand on its own. Better than that piggyback on what has been hell for some people.

Leeds – An Occupied City

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In the Civil War, Leeds was an occupied city. It changed hands several times in the fighting, finally being taken by Parliament forces in 1644 and a garrison station there under the leadership of Major (or Major-General) Carter.

The Scots troops who’d helped finally take the city did cause some destruction, with houses burnt, and in the wake Leeds was a depressed place, the wool trade that was its lifeblood in tatters for a few years. It would come back, of course, but not all would thrive. Several wealthy merchants who’d aided the Royalist cause received heavy fines, including John Harrison, one of the city’s great benefactors who gave Leeds St. John’s Church, the original grammar school (located more or less where the Grand Theatre stands today) and the Market Cross (which was at the top of Briggate by the Headrow).

To top it all off, early in 1645 there was an outbreak of plague that lasted most of the year, with the poor areas of Vicar Lane and the Calls the worst hit. The first victim was a little girl named Alice Musgrave.

As a novelist, not a historian, I’m not going to go into all the facts. Instead I offer an excerpt from a work-in-progress set in Leeds at the time that – I hope – sets the scene of despair and desperation.

He rode across the bridge and into Leeds, his uniform covered in dust and mud, the shine worn off his long boots. The sword at his waist tapped gently against the horse’s flanks as the animal moved.

He looked around at the place as the animal trotted. Several houses had been burned, with only a few, fragile blackened timbers remaining, lakes of dark water and slush where floors had once been. One of them must have been a fine place once, a rich man’s mansion, proud and bold. Now it would give shelter to no one.

The troopers on the street saluted him, but he only spotted a few local folk, scuttling quickly and quietly about their business, trying to remain unnoticed. The town seemed hushed, dead, as if a pall had descended and wouldn’t lift. It was hard to believe this had once been a bustling place, starting to grow fat on the wool trade. Since then it had been fought over, taken, lost, recaptured, and each time its fortunes had fallen a little further. Now it looked as though they’d reached their lowest ebb.

The biggest building stood right the middle of the street, cart tracks in the muddy road on either side. He dismounted, gave the reins to a soldier and entered. A clerk looked at him, then snapped upright in his chair.

“I’m Captain Eyre,” he said. “Here to report to Major Carter.”

That had been a week before, at the end of February 1645. He’d been seconded from Hull to serve as adjutant with the garrison of Parliament troops here. They’d stormed Leeds for the final time the year before, led by the Scotsmen who’d had their vengeance for the resistance in the burning and hangings, the looting and rape.

At least they were long since gone, praise God, sent back north of the border in disgrace. The commandant was trying to bring order here, to return Leeds to what it had once been.

The captain looked out of the mullioned windows and along Briggate. It was Tuesday morning, so the twice-weekly cloth market would be held on the bridge. The weavers would display their cloth on the parapets and the merchants would go around, deciding what to buy.

He’d been there on Saturday, dismayed by the poor turnout. No more than ten clothiers and just a handful of merchants, the deals that conducted in whispers. Orders were low, he’d been told, with men preferring to take their trade to Bradford and Wakefield, anywhere that hadn’t been torn apart by battle.

He’d walked the streets and seen the looks on the faces. Whether rich or poor, they all carried fear in their eyes. The world they understood had vanished. Instead of the Corporation there was martial law, the commandant issuing edicts and enforcing them with troops who patrolled or stood guard on the corners, the dull light glinting off their pikes. Men had to be off the street by nine, women had to dress with due modesty. Sunday worship could only be at St. John’s, and there could be no trade on the Sabbath. Whether it wanted to be or not, Leeds was becoming a city of God.

All the merchants and aldermen who’d supported the king were being assessed. They’d have their day in court, make their cases and receive fines. A few had already left, like lawyer Benson, with nothing left to his name after his house was torched to its bones.

Officially the Captain was adjutant to the garrison, but his true job was gathering intelligence, to learn of any Royalist plots and stop them. By itself that would be difficult enough in a place where he knew no one and all the citizens distrusted the soldiers, but he also had to uphold the laws. Already he’d ordered a whore whipped through the streets for plying her trade and a baker in the stocks after he sold adulterated bread.

This could be a good place, he decided. Trade could be rebuilt, normality return, the sound of laughter heard in the air again. With time and God’s good grace.

He turned at the knock on the door.

“Come in,” he said, hearing the familiar limp of Wilson, the pikeman who was his clerk. The soldier had been injured at York, a musket ball breaking the bone in his thigh, but he could write and do his sums, more valuable at a desk than on any battlefield. He was better doing this than begging on a corner somewhere.

The man had his hands pushed together in front of him, his face full of terror.

“What is it?” Eyre asked.

“There’s plague, sir, down on Vicar Lane. A little girl.”

Entertain Us: The Rise of Nirvana

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Entertain Us: The Rise of Nirvana

Gillian G. Gaar

It’s probably not surprising that some of the best books about Nirvana have come from writers in Seattle. Charles R. Cross’s book on Kurt Cobain was largely definitive, and even Dave Thompson’s quick biography of Cobain, released within a month of the suicide, was well-researched and written. However, probably no-one’s written more about then band than Gillian Gaar (in the interests of full disclosure, she and I both used to write for Seattle publication The Rocket, as did Thompson, and it was owned by Cross).

It’s a book that’s full of detail and minutae, not a primer for anyone wanting to know the band’s career arc. She takes the tack – quite rightly – that the early years are the most interesting, and the interviews and research she’s undertaken to put everything together is impressive to the point of being terrifying. This isn’t a job, it’s just as much a labour of love, and she’s such a good, clear writer, that everything is laid out like a road for the reader. There’s plenty of depth about the Chad Channing years, as the band was getting into gear, and the comparisons of different versions of songs comes with the real knowledge of the music journalist and the devotion of a fan.

Every show the band played is documented, as is every recording session, radio session, festival, TV appearance. All through the focus is on the music and how, if not always why, it turned out the way it did. For most fans, Nevermind was the album that brought them to the band. By then Gaar was already a longtime fan, seeing them through the Sub Pop years, and she’s someone who sees the first album, Bleach, as seminal. In many ways she’s right. The ripples didn’t spread as wide as they did later, but it was a vital recording that signalled a shift in music, coming as it did in the same period that Mudhoney, Soundgarden and others to herald what became called grunge. But, as Gaar shows, Nirvana stood apart, and, as she shows further, did so throughout their existence and even into their strange afterlife.